Like a Dog
by MurielLeeJones
Summary: Set during season one, just after 1.19, Provenance. Dean knows something is up with Sam, turns out that Sam has done some extreme body-modification while he was at Stanford. There isn't a "social definition of gender" category under Genres, or this would be in it. Confession: I've done a little re-writing, and its turned into wincest, well it will. Rated M for later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

I am leaning against the window of the impala, deciding if pretending to sleep is worth it. Dean could turn the music up right about now, which he isn't. I close my eyes, Dean will know the difference, but at least he will know I don't want to talk.

"You're allowed to be with someone Sammy."

I know he expects me to respond with _just too soon_, or _not right now_, or the right thing to say, whatever that is. I keep my eyes closed.

"Sammy." His voice is warning, and I know he is looking over at me.

I open my eyes and look briefly at the ceiling of the impala. I glance at him, letting my head roll against the window. His eyes are fastened on the road ahead; his grip is too tight on the steering wheel. He knows this is about something more than Jess, and god, loosing Jess is more than enough.

Sam pulls one of those bitch faces of his as he looks over at me. At least he stopped pretending to sleep. For someone who always wants to talk about everything he hasn't said a word about what happened, didn't happen, with Sarah.

"Sammy, talk to me."

Dean is looking over at me while he is driving god knows how fast down a dark deserted highway to god knows where. There is pull to his lower lip, anger or concern, it's hard to tell in the half-dark.

"I need to tell you something." And my stomach flips over, as much as when I first made the decision, as much as when it was finally done.

He looks relived; his face opens up, his hand on the wheel relaxes its grip, he pats my knee. "There we go, that's my Sammy, ready to talk like a girl."

I look out the window, I don't know if he could have picked a worse thing to say.

"Dean,"I swallow. He looks at me, dammit I wish he would stop ignoring the road, with a frown, his _Sam I am Genuinely Concerned About You _Face. His eyes are so green in this light, and I can't look at him and say this. I deliberately look out the window and raise my voice slightly so I know I will be heard, "I had myself cut."

"Cut?"

I glance at him. He glances back at the road, and then turns back to stare at me with his _Sam I am Going to Get to the Bottom of this _Face. I see the glimmer of realization, maybe anger. I am too nervous to read him well. What if he doesn't get what I did? what I had done? what if I have to lay it out? use _the_ word?

"Like a dog?"

God I nearly smile at that. I swallow and nod, I'm not going to be talking now.

"Castrated?"

Oh, god, _the_ word.

"You had your balls cut off? Like a girl?"

Now what he says earlier hits him. "Sammy, I didn't mean it, you know," he awkwardly reaches a hand out—I wish he would steer with one or the other, maybe even both.

"Girls aren't men with their balls cut off." It was bitchy, it came out bitchy. I look across at him, straight at him, hoping this isn't some sort of end for me and him. "I just thought you should know Dean."

"Do you want be a girl Sammy?"

I can't answer. "Dean."

"Or did you have, you know, cancer or something, down," he waves his hand at my, not his, my crotch area.

God, I think Dean is going to cry. "Sammy, man,"

"It was a choice."

I turn up the music.

So Sammy was a bit off, a lot off. Not with the case, but with Sarah; and I knew wasn't just about Jess, and it is too much for him already when it is about Jess. I knew already this is some piece of serious Sam shit; the more serious his Sam stuff is the less he talks. This one was going somewhere, and I knew it wasn't anywhere good. Then he tells me, crap, I kinda wish I hadn't pushed, and I can't figure out what the hell I'm meant to say. Man, Sammy, I tried the obvious questions, I don't know what I'm meant to ask, ok? Sammy, that's all good, you didn't need those anyhow? Is that what I'm meant to say? It's ok Sam, you're still a real man to me? What the hell am I meant to say? My little brother has his balls cut off like a dog, because he wants to? Not even a dog wants to, especially not a dog. Sammy, what in the hell were you thinking? You can be ok with it if you like, just don't expect me to be. I can say that when we stop for gas again.

I get out and pump the gas, and he goes into the store buys pie and whatever men without balls eat, and crappy coffee. He doesn't seem all that different, not considering. Aren't guys, like that meant to get fat? We get back in, like hell I'm going to let him drive, like hell I'm ever going to let him decide anything ever again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Two days later in Kansas:**

I'm looking over the newspapers, I don't like Kansas, I'd like to keep going—I don't like Palo Alto anymore either; I wonder if these places eventually add up until you settle the last place you have left.

"Hey." Yep, that's Sammy, jumps out of his skin every time I talk, as though he never expects me to talk to him again. "What's up?"

"Nothing. Looks like there might be a job near Council Grove." Of course, I should have told Dean about this job, definitely, because I want to stay in Kansas. He hasn't talked to me other than to ask me to hand him beer, or tell me he's going to shower first, or send me to book us into the motel, to get the snacks at the gas station, or to tell me change the mullet rock tape in the Impala's cassette player, or to remind me to not fuck up the laundry; mainly he's only talked to me to tell me to do things, which is still pretty much normal for him.

Well that's nice Sammy, I try to talk to you and all you talk about is business. You might owe me an explanation, but now you're never talking to me about anything other than ghosts and guns again. You may as well be at Stanford if you're going to pull this cutting me out shit—again. But yeah, job, that's what we do, "So what is it?" I really don't want him to go back to Stanford, I don't think I could take it if Sammy was out of my sight—probably because he does such dumb things.

"Stud barn, looks like it might have a ghost, poltergeist, vengeful spirit, definitely something, probably our kind of something."

"Stud barn huh?" Dean smirks, leers, that's more of a leer, Christ, it's like he's still thirteen. Really he looks like a ten year old boy making his first dirty joke, he looks too happy for what our life is now; I wish he could have been that ten year old boy, its Dean's life that has never been fair—no matter what bull-shit I've said to him, in-part because of all the shit I've said to him.

"For god's sakes Dean. Really?" And, it's a little weird to be not so into this stuff, not that I'm totally not, just, Dean is a little over the top sometimes. "That's disgusting. And it's a _horse_ breeding barn…"

Sam can be such an ass, balls or not, he's an ass—do I really have to think about that? Ever? Ever? Again? "Hey, Sammy, putting words in my mouth…" That pissed-off-nine-year-old-found-a-frog-in-his-bed face makes all of it worth it. Not that it was me that did that to him.

"Whatever, Dean. Bar-H Ranch breeds cutting horses, worth shitloads of money. Stallions got out, bred some local mares…" – Dean looks pleased, on their behalf. – "…were found and rounded up; then a month later again; and then three weeks later, and again—"

"Yeah, Sammy, not stupid here, I get the general plan." Sammy thinks he's suddenly cleverer than me since he went off to college, but hey, I'm _seriously_ not stupid here – he's the one who does dumb things. "So, what makes this ours? Horses could have let themselves out, you hear stories about that all the time? Kids prank? Pissed off neighbor? Competing barn? All good reasons." I don't think Sammy likes Kansas anymore than I do, so I'm pissed at him for finding a half-assed reason to stop moving.

"All the time?" I smile at Dean, he's such a bull-shitter, he probably only heard one story about a horse letting its companions out of the barn—ever. No matter what he thinks his serious look doesn't make anything a fact. The others are good theories though, other than then next thing the local paper says. It's been 'locally owned since 1892', and includes stories about the Jones' new baby, and the number of calves 'come too early last spring', rodeo seems bigger than football here the "Emporium High" has a team; looks as if rodeo is all that happens, beside missing horses, and new babies and preemie cows. Great. I'm totally going to fit in. We can get Dean a hat, and he should be fine.

"Sammy, you better have a good reason?" Where does that kid go in his head? I wish I could get in there; apparently there's some pretty shifty stuff going on, given what he's had done. Did he seriously manage to startle again? He looks down at the newspaper.

"Seems an enterprising reporter, that would be the only – and now late - reporter, went and staked out the barn."

"And?"

"Next morning the horses were out, and the reporter was dead, two hoof prints on his chest, kick apparently stopped his heart."

"Still not our thing Sam." I am so going to make him prove it beyond a fucking doubt before we stay.

"The print was made by the hind feet of a horse without shoes."

"Again, so what? Horses kill people all the time right?" Stallions kill I learned that one on PBS. "Sam?" Does he have to try to read and talk at the same time? He is so intent on reading, just like when he was little and still learning, and he was so into it already then – he still looks adorable.

"Oh, right." I look up at Dean standing behind me, leaning over to read the paper, in case for some reason I forgot how to read and got the story wrong; I've been reading for 17 years Dean, I think I can do it without your help by now. "The barn horses have shoes, says they work them. And it says the print was a 'zero-zero-zero', whatever that is?"

"Hoof size, triple-aught shoe size, something that small should be a pony." Apparently it comes in handy to watch RDF in the middle of the night. "Any cutting _ponies_ in the barn Sammy?" Sam pulls a bitchy face and shakes his head, apparently 'it doesn't say'. I realize I just argued Sam's point, or the facts argued Sam's point really. "Ok, we're staying here." And because I don't want to, I add, "Just to check it out."

Good, Dean agreed to stay here. Why do I think that's good at all?

Sammy insisted we dress-up in – stupid – newspaper reporter getup; he probably makes us do it because he knows he looks great in a suit. We talk to the manager, Melissa—god is she hot—Melissa McClain. Seems Sam's type, confident, totally in charge of the situation – even when it sucks – not easily frightened. Those horses treat her with respect, and so would Sam. Melissa tells us that she, personally had closed all the gates, locked the barn, and padlocked the stalls; cameras were always on at night, and now night-and-day and - breakthrough - cameras were on when the reporter, Hayes, was killed. Melissa made copies of the disks for us, and offered her help to _Sammy_ in reviewing them. She continued her story: The mares in the far barn weren't freed, hadn't yet been freed, but that didn't mean there wasn't increased security on their side; Melissa handed those disks also to Sam in a pointed way, that made me want Sam to take a good long assisted look at them. Does he really not notice? Is that because of his, you know, thing? So I figured that I should just set them up or something. Sam was never good at pick-ups anyhow. Go to the bar with the both of them, and meet someone and leave? That could work. I know what she sees, Sam is an attractive man, gentle, thoughtful, soft spoken, passionate, built, likes to think he's really cleaver, he can be selfish, but she can find that out later, there's that other thing; what she doesn't know can't hurt her? So, perhaps that might be an actual problem_?_ When Sam asked her about other security measures though, she avoided the question. Told us it was the same basic security that all the barns had. Sam might want to go back and follow up on that.

Dean is such an ass. I don't know really, maybe if I had ever been normal I would be like him. I like the way I am. Melissa is the kind of woman who might be 'my type', it's not her fault I'm not interested—but she does live in Kansas. I can take these disks to the hotel, look up some local history and review the disks with Dean. Or he can go to the bar if that's what he wants, but we both know it's just a setup, and he could just as well come and help. He keeps trying to figure out ways that I can pick her up – as though I need help with that. It's more complicated than usual, sure. I hadn't really planned on explaining it to anyone, it was me and Jess then. I don't think Melissa bought it that we're from the Weekly World News. My type isn't one night stands, Dean could try getting to know someone, all those little things before he jumps into bed with them. It's knowing, loving, those quirks that make relationships work: Dean takes the bed near the door, no arguing; he loves to drive, but if he is worried about me he lets me instead; unless he's really-really worried and then he won't let me, and his favorite band has _always_ been Bon Jovi, he'll _always_ deny it; he hates shopping for boots – so he gets super pissed off when he ruins them, and he always ruins them, he thinks that hustling pool is a real job – so don't try to stop him; and Dad is his religion and that sucks for him. So he can try to talk us all into going to a bar tonight, and slip away—as if I don't know that trick. But, seriously Dean, have you never noticed I don't do on-the-fly-hook-ups? You ever think that things might always have been more complicated for me?

Sammy won't come to the bar, and Melissa won't come because she doesn't want to leave the barn, which admittedly makes sense, but Sam could take a hint, help her watch out for scary things – or just come along and talk things over with me. I don't want to look like a complete ass, so I end up sitting at the bar, pretending I planned talk to the locals, pretending I actually wanted a beer alone. Some guy comes over to me, big guy, six foot four, makes me think of Sam. (Did Sammy grow again?) The big guy asks if I'm one of the reporters from the Weekly World News, and I've had a couple of shots so I think I probably am, so I say 'yeah.'; and he says he has something to tell me. He has the same fox-slanty eyes as Sam, you don't see that much, it looks mysterious maybe hot, but he cuts of that thought by telling me he used to be foreman at a local ranch, and there have been problems there also. I should be paying better attention to what this guy saying, it would be easier if Sam had agreed to come with me. Why Sam would rather do research than come out with me? But, yeah, right, the job: so what was this guy saying?

In summary, as I told Sam later: James Belmont had moved back to Council Grove from Oklahoma as a young man – because this is traditional Kanza land, and because there was no work in Oklahoma for him. He found work as a loper, riding green horses out for the trainers. James worked several barns, and moved on, because he was scared at first, and then because he was forced – all because of the same thing: the stallions were getting out. He adds to his story from there, eventually it won't just be the stallions it will be the mares, not just out, but bred, and when the foals come they look to be ponies; and the foals are shot under cover of night, or sold off in slaughter lots, or set to run free on what used to be common land. But none of them kept in the barn ever. And he makes the sign of the cross, to ward against what follows. The ghost ponies are, for the first time - he pauses to check if anyone else is listening – the ghost ponies are even in the barns that use hexing—adding 'that would now be all of them'. He touches an amulet around his neck, I wonder if I should get Sammy one of those things. The he adds: no one will hire a Kanza hand around here. I buy him another one.

I slap him on the back, offer my other hand, and sign off with a "Night, Jimmy."

"It's James." He says.

"So, waddya think Sammy?" He doesn't raise his head, he's so intent on starting at his laptop. He's so far away an amateur could murder him. "Sam!" He looks up from his daze and jumps. A half empty bottle of Jack is set next the bed where he is propped up, too damn drunk to sit up by himself. Trust Sam to drink alone rather than come out with me. Maybe its Jess related despair; I wonder what she thought about the whole thing. Why do I have to keep thinking about that? I shove him over a bit, sit down mostly next to him, so I can read over his shoulder on the bed, no other reason. _Seriously Dean? You did not just think that._

Dean manages to shout at me about everything, everything—he must think he's Dad; can't even come into the room without frightening the crap out of me. I think he still thinks I should do the manager to prove that I'm still a man, or something—maybe to prove that I'm still a something. And, quite seriously, I don't need to prove something, or anything. And he must seriously think he's Dad, because he's plenty damn drunk again.

Back to the job though, that's why we're here. "Looks like a case, for real, Dean." I'm speaking clearly, mostly, probably, he'll never notice anyway, I didn't think he'd be home until morning. And it does look like a case, because the further back I looked in the archives, thank god for feminist researchers seeking out and recording women's history of Kansas, I could barely find other on-line written records, the further back there were more stories about the 'ghost ponies'. Maybe I hacked an academic database, I didn't learn nothing in College; and I broke the law—Dean will be proud of me.

I tell Dean the quick version of the story: Been happening ever since settlers started breeding horses here. First the loose stallions, then loose mares, then bred mares. The foals largely destroyed, or turned loose. Some were kept; the horses with the crossed lines were sensitive, sensible, and bold, and could be trusted with children-women choose to keep them. Others of the white settler women had claimed the horses had cursed by the Kanza, and set up magic of their own, some of it quite powerful judging from the hexing sigils carefully re-drawn by these university women. And now there were all these old hexes laying across the land, and old buildings that had been the site of violence, and slaughter. I wondered why anyone would ever live in Kanzas. The white settlers living in poverty brought upon them by a disinterred government, cattle companies, lack of skills, and their arrogance; the buffalo gone, the coyote gone, the grasslands gone, the fields turned to dust in the depression, the Kanza driven from their land by the settlers and the government. Look what happened to our family, why in the fuck did we even want to spend a night here?

"Do you miss them?" I ask Sam. I'm drunk, he's plastered; I can ask that kind of thing.

"The Kanza?" God, Dean asks the strangest questions; he must be more mothered than he seems. Then I realize what he really means. I should probably lie, say something like 'its let me be who I am', or 'its how I thought it would be' or 'no, why would I'. Maybe I should tell someone, I still try to tell Jessica; and sometimes the person I tell needs to be Dean, and I wish I could tell him, and trust him with it, like when I was six. I wish I could say 'Sometimes.' And wish I could tell him the truth, which would be 'Sometimes, yeah'.

Sammy pushes up against the side of me—same as he did when he was a little tyke, and he was scared. And when he mutters – he does that when he's really drunk, and he thinks he's only talking to himself - 'sometimes' and then 'yeah' I want to drag him onto my chest like I did then.

I'm not whispering to Dean in the dark, I can't be; not like I did when I was six and he was ten; like when I thought my world would end if it wasn't for Dean; like when there was nothing safe except Dean, Dean, Dean. And it's not like it would take it back, I would do it again. I can hear my own heart beating; I want to push my head against his chest and hear the assurance of his. I want to tell him: I needed to do this, I had to do this, it might weird you out but this is normal for me, it's part of the normal I needed. But there are things I didn't expect, changes I didn't expect, they might have told me, but I didn't understand what it meant; and I was meant to do this all with Jess, and I have to do it alone.

Sam is mumbling against my neck, and all I really catch is 'Alone'. I rest my chin on his stupid hair for a moment; he never seems to know it, he never has to do anything alone. I tug his shoulders over, so his head rests on my chest. He's drunk tonight—this won't happen again. It feels as though we are kids, Sam vulnerable and wide-eyed and scared, and me not knowing what the hell to do, and just holding on.


	3. Chapter 3

This morning was as awkward as all hell. I woke up with Sammy in my arms, his hair all fuzzy and sloppy in my face, breathing on my chest, and…fuck it…I had a hard-on. How did I even get a hard-on with this kind of hangover? I should probably go take care of it. Thanks for nothing, morning.

This morning was awkward as all hell. I woke up with Dean holding me, breathing into my hair, my face pressed into his chest; and great, I had a hard-on—talk about something that hasn't happened in forever. I don't really want to take care of it. Great, I'm meant to be dealing here. Thank god Dean went to take a shower. I can bury myself in my hangover, and figure this out.

Yeah, so after a shower, and coffee, and deciding that Sammy would have a fit if I have a nip before breakfast I figure we can divide out tasks and get on with the day. A little space between us wouldn't hurt here, figure things out.

No run this morning, I'll do that this evening; a protein drink, coffee, juice, aspirin. I consider taking the hormones I still have hidden in my duffel—would save me all the, some of the, work outs and I don't really like lettuce, sometimes I would kill for a greasy burger. Now I wish Dean would get out of the shower, just get on with the damn day. I don't feel human enough to work the case, but work has to be done: saving people, hunting things, family business.

This is uncomfortable: otherwise known as having breakfast with the brother-you-snuggled-with-like-a-kid-last-night, and woke up holding this morning (both of you hard) in the local diner. Sammy probably has no clue what he said to me last night…and I don't really want to bring any of this up. Give him some space to work it out, or something.

I have no idea what I said to him last night—I probably humiliated myself. Please let him not have seen me sort of hard this morning. I can't possibly ask him what I said —that would only make it worse; I can't think of anything Dean would rather not talk about. He barely talks to me. He could tease me about this for the rest of my life—which right now I would be ok with being shorter, rather longer. Dean wouldn't do that. Would he?

We sit in silence, no conversation this morning then, I try something practical: "Sammy," Does Sam _have_ to flinch every time I talk? "you go over to Melissa, take those DVD's back and ask about those hexes, I'll bet that's what she wasn't telling us about the security."

Sam examines his hands, "Uh, I didn't get around to watching those."

"Ok, so watch them with her then."

Wow, I guess he was just waiting to explode, or maybe it's the hangover, but I don't want a scene. "I. Don't. Want. To. Do. Her. Dean." Did Sam really need to share that with the whole diner? "Why don't you give it a shot Dean? Since you're such a real man." Thanks Sammy, for whatever that means.

"I just asked you watch them, and get back to her."

The look he gives me is priceless, classic bitch-face Sam. "No Dean, what you did was _tell_ me to watch them, and _tell_ me to fuck her."

Then he flounces his little princess ass out of here.

I hear Dean calling from behind me: "I didn't _tell_ you to fuck her."

Well, fuck you Sam. I throw some bill down, ignore the locals, and set off to talk to folks at some of the barns James mentioned. Sammy can walk his damn ass back to the motel and watch those tapes. I should have I'd told him about the phone call, he will kill me if he talks to Bobby, or Dad, before I tell him, he'll probably kill me anyhow. I try Bobby on my phone again, and ring through to voice mail…it's probably best to try only three lines, I don't want to look to desperate…I was an idiot, I am desperate. I try all Bobby's lines. On the way out of town I buy a cowboy hat, local flavor, help me fit in.

Yeah, so it turns out that a hat doesn't open doors around here, but James does. I've been to about five places…apparently everyone heard about 'the boys from the world-news'. I stop in at a bar outside town, rumor has it that serves good burgers, and James stops by not long after. He sets himself down next to me at the bar counter, and smiles contentedly.

"Haven't found a thing out have you?"

Burgers and fries and a beer or two and we are off to the rodeo. Friday means local rodeo night. And apparently James is the man to be seen with at the rodeo. Not that anyone is talking to me anyhow, but as we walk by the various paddocks and pens and trailers at the fairgrounds James just nods toward the hexes drawn onto doors, and sometimes stamped into saddles and bridles. Every once in a while someone greets James or asks him a question about an event or a horse…or betting. I could get in on that. What started out as research has become an afternoon of beer and betting. I start wondering if I should tell Sammy where I am, and I start praying he hasn't picked his phone. He could have called Bobby with a research question…that would suck, seriously suck, he would call me if he was that pissed off, wouldn't he? Maybe he'll never talk to me again.

I watch the tapes, and come up with an answer as to why Melissa didn't call the cops on these—the relevant points on the tape, including the death of our intrepid report, are all snowed out; but I can see hexes on the stalls and in the rafters. I can't really say much more than, yep, paranormal, and yep, nothing for a civilian to see, and effectively, yep, no news. Melissa definitely didn't want us to know what was going on. She didn't tell us the whole deal, so maybe I'll just ask her the full story when I go around. Oh, wait, Dean fucked off in the car, and I get to sit in the motel room until he's good and ready to come back here. My phone rings; maybe it's him.

James has walked off to check a horse with a spavin or puffs, or a high-bone or something. Do these people actually speak English? So I'm sitting around, enjoying my hat and some good company when I realize that I probably should actually do some researching. It's just that everyone shuts down immediately when I ask about the stallions: yeah, they heard of that, saw it in the papers, pity about that reporter guy, must be hard on his family, but, generally 'they don't know nothing'. I am about to continue with my quest when James re-appears and claps a hand firmly on my shoulder, seems he needs to go and look at a horse on the other side of the fairgrounds (might be ready for today, might not) and it turns out he really thinks I should go with him. I really should call Sammy.

It's not Dean, at all, which is good, very good—because he is the last person I want to talk to; not because I'm pissed at him, I'm over that, with Dean I have to get over those things but because I still don't know what to say to him about last night. I haven't had a hard-on, or what passes for it, in months, since Jessica, since my body really changed—and I get one when I'm sleeping with him. Do I even _want_ to understand that? It's Melissa calling, and she is coming into town and can she pick up the DVDs; and I say I haven't watched them yet, and she says she'll watch them with me, so I say: Let's do that, why don't you swing by here.

Not ten minutes later Melissa arrives with Chinese take-out 'best Chinese around Emporium' and greets me with: "I hear you don't want to do me?"

I examine my bare toes, and briefly glance up at her; I try to hide behind my hair and smile. That's right; I don't want to do her. Then she smiles, and shrugs and adds: "I don't want to do you either." I'm so relieved. "And, no you didn't mis-read me earlier, but it wasn't a pick up, it was just an 'I think I might enjoy you'." And now I full on smile at her, and I sort of didn't intend to, because well, I maybe looked forward to seeing her even if it wasn't with _that_ as the plan. "Is your brother really an ass?"

I laugh out loud. "Yes," I pause, "No," pause, "Not really. He just doesn't do well with women." I try and explain, "He does well with women, just not in," why am I getting myself into this mess trying to explain Dean and women, "he doesn't really date women, he just" pause, "meets them?"

Melissa looks amused, "By which you mean fucks them?"

"Huh, oh, kind of, yes." Great, now I'm trying to rationalize Dean and women, "We're not in a place to form emotional attachments, we move around too much, we only really spend time with each other." Then I realize what I have implied, and Melissa looks amused, in a happy way, not an un-kind way at all, at my fumbling. So I try again: "Dean doesn't do sex and emotions at the same time, it just keeps him from getting caught up in things he can't finish."

"And you?" she asks as she opens cartons and hands me chopsticks and sits down as though she owns the place; or as though she rents the place. She seems to think the better of her question, and adds "I'm sorry, it wasn't mine to ask."

I need to answer this question sometime. "I don't do that." That wasn't a great answer, even I don't know which 'that' I intend.

"Please don't answer Sam." She lets me off the hook, "I came to watch tapes with you, I can show you things you can't see and the police won't. Your brother talked to James, so you probably know some of the story that comes with."

"You are an idiot." I want to protest to James that only Bobbly gets to call me that. But I am an idiot, I'm sure Sammy would agree with that assessment, first James pointed out the obvious…well it was obvious to him, but somehow not to me…that a 'strange pretty boy' (he actually called me that) asking questions wasn't going to be getting much of anywhere; and that maybe by shutting up I would do a better job of fitting in. And then, to deal with the fitting in thing I bet that I could ride a bull for the full real-deal-cowboy-rodeo 8 seconds. I've never even sat on one of those things. When I took that bet was when James called me an idiot again.

"Rodeo it is." Melissa declares. She had covered most of the history with me, seems like she and James had done their own research, and 'all we had to do was ask' and they would have filled us in; although I'm not entirely sure on that. We conclude there is nothing doing tonight, and that what we should do about it can be left until tomorrow, or even, since it seems no one else is dying, till Sunday, Monday. It was nice to kick back, and hang out, and not to have to deal with Dean all the time, and what Dean thinks, and what Dean needs. Anyways, she said we could go out to her barn and ride out tomorrow if we liked, she has some 'guest horses' but which I take it she means horses for idiots. I can ride, well sort of, Jessica thought it was a good idea to take lessons. We were going to have horses when I was a lawyer and she was staying home with the kids, and we would all ride, and we could go on pack trips on the weekends. Jessica wanted kids, I wanted kids. Yeah, well rodeo it is.

And there we meet James trying to manage a very exceptionally exceedingly drunk Dean; and drunk Dean has bet that he can ride a bull. Sober Dean can't ride a horse. Great, fucking great (this is why I love you so much) Dean. James is attempting to act as a consultant to hopeful young cowboys, while mostly holding up Dean. Melissa, between looking worried, is laughing out loud. I don't know what comes over me, Dean can be such a jerk sometimes, and it's his ego that got him into this thing, but he saves me over and over again, and I owe the guy—no I didn't have anything to drink, I just really think that. I tell Dean I'll do the ride for him. The look on his face, the utter bewilderment, is perfect and he has no choice because he can barely stand, so he has to give in; now all that's left is for James to convince Dean's newly acquired cowboy pals that the bet is still fair. They must be nearly as drunk as him—they agree to a deal, me for him.

Yeah, well, if Sammy thinks he can do that, good for him, you go for it Sam, you can do it, hell, you're Sammy, you can do anything. He really can do anything, he's such a silly sometimes, but Sam can do anything, he could have been a lawyer or a doctor or something. He went to college, and it's my fault he left. Melissa – her name is Melissa, right? – tells me to shut up. Damn, I wish I had, I kind of thought I had. Hey, Sam's still talking to me…he couldn't have talked to Bobby, or Dad. Dammit, if Dad finds out about this thing, he's going to find out about Sammy and it's all my fault. How the hell did I get so drunk?

"Sammy?" I seem to have been set down in a chair. "Sammy?" He beams at me, "Sammy?" That smile is enough to make the bull itself fall in love. "Sammy?" He puts my hat on his head and ruffles my hair. "Thanks for doing this for me, I know I've been an ass…"

"Don't thank me Dean." Sammy grins. "Just watch in wonder." Where does the little ass-hat get off being so cocky, bastard sounds just like me.

Riding a bull must be up there with the dumbest things I have ever done. Right near the top. And like most of the other dumb things I've ever done, I've done them for Dean. The guys are just about wetting themselves laughing, more than one of them offered me a 'last beer', and giving me conflicting instructions. Basically one leg on each side, one hand up, one hand holds, and stay up there for 8 seconds—oh, and don't die. Just another day for a Winchester, do whatever it is and remember not to die.

"Sammy! Sam! Fuck it Sammy!" I never get sober so quickly as when Sammy gets hurt, and this time he looks good and proper hurt…there's a monster or two out there that would be jealous of that bull's moves. And one of those moves entailed standing on Sam. I'm on the floor with him, in less than the eight seconds that he did actually stay on the bull. He rode the damn thing, Sammy rode the thing. I'm not entirely sober. "Sammy." James is pushing me out of the way, Melissa is holding me back and the rodeo medics are there. I can hear them 'Sam can you hear me?' And Sam must say 'yes' because they ask him more things. He's alive, I breathe slowly, don't open my eyes for a minute, Sam is alive, he is breathing, now is not a time for me to fall apart. If he was answering _me_ he would probably have said 'no' just to mess with me.

"Dean?" These damn medics can go fuck themselves, or someone more interesting, I don't really care. All I want right now is Dean. "Dean?" They keep asking me questions. I give them the summary: I'm not getting in any ambulance, I'm not going to the hospital, I can move my limbs, I know my name, I don't give fuck if there is something that _might_ be broken, there's not much blood anywhere, I can breathe; I do not want you touching me, I want you not touching me. "Let me go home with Dean." Not that there is any home other than Dean, but I can't explain that them, I can't actually explain it to him; it doesn't make sense to me, I did hit my head. But fuck it hurts when I try to move, I think I've bruised my everything. I struggle to get up.

"Wait a moment Sam." That's James, cutting through all the c-and-b, "Sam, just go with them, they just need to check you out, nothing else." He doesn't even bother looking confused, just plain straight up tells Sammy what to do, but without being an asshole about it like Dad.

When I refuse again I've lost control of the pitch of my voice, I'm frightened and James can tell.

"No," thank god, Dean has caught on, he knows why I can't, and I don't want anyone else to know. "If Sam says he's good we go home, he comes home with me."

James looks between me and Sam. "Neither of you lies as well as you think, but if you practice like this you might get better." I thought he would be abrupt but instead his voice is sad: "Melissa and I will drop you boys at the motel."

Yeah, well I guess Sammy did all right. We made good money on the bet, if James hadn't been our friend (James is our friend?) there might have been trouble…I think the guys might have thought Sammy and I hustled them. We didn't, I didn't know Sammy could ride a fucking horse, and it turns out Sammy can figure out anything, he figured out how to ride a bull.

Dean is fucked up drunk as I am just generally fucked up. Melissa and James leave. I thought they were going to stay and tuck us in they were so damn worried. I'll be fine, I know I'll be fine. "Dean?" He rolls over on his bed, and faces me. Then he shakes his head, climbs out of his bed, and climbs back in with me; it was ok for last night, it will be ok tonight again.

I wake up at two in the morning. I am wrapped around Sammy, and he is pushed back against me, but I can tell from his breathing he is awake, from the tension in his shoulders he is worried, he is good and upset about something. He should be upset, my cock is, I am, hard and pushed up against him. I try to move away, but he holds my arms around him. "Dean?" My brave cowboy sounds just like the girl he can be. "Dean?"

"Yeah?" I whisper back to him.

"Can I tell you something?"

I want to answer: 'At fucking last.' But I go with the more sensitive: "Anything."

"They said I should," Can you sound embarrassed in the dark? Sam sounds embarrassed in the dark. "They said I should work myself to climax on a regular basis, and I can't, I just can't."

I smile into the back of Sammy's neck, 'work himself to climax' really Sammy. "Jerk off, the good doctors wanted the boy without balls to jerk off?" Crap, that wasn't sensitive, but Sammy relaxes anyhow, I guess he really does like it when I give him shit. "What do you mean can't?" Maybe I don't want to know the answer to that.

"Technically," trust Sammy to get technical at a time like this, "I can achieve orgasm, although, it may be dry, or I might release a minimal…" I can tell that Sammy feels stupid trying to talk about this.

"Yeah, and…" I cut him off.

"I don't know how." I realize one of his hands is right by his crotch— he's lying in my arms trying to figure out how to touch himself? "I've never done it before." Fuck, Sam spent his teenage, horney-as-all-hell, years without ever? And Jess, did Jess never? Sam is a virgin. Wow. Fuck.

"Like you've never never done anything before?"

And Sam shakes his head into the pillow: "The only person who touched me there was the guy who cut me, and that was just for, when he, you know, he had to get them." He goes on, talking to the dark, and talking to me: "I was, before I had, I was disgusting like that, I wasn't meant to be like that. I thought after, you know, after, I would be able to let her touch me. But we never got the chance. That night you came for me that was three weeks after I was, you know. We were going to try for the first time the next morning."

I took away the only chance Sam had to be with Jess, to have her be his first, to have her teach him. I'm so sorry Sam. I'm so sorry Sam. I'm nuzzling the back of his neck. I _will_ keep myself under control here.

I feel the tension run back into him. "Can you help me Dean?" There is a long pause in there, "Just tell me what to do or something?"

"Sure Sammy," I've taught him a bunch of other stuff, I can teach him this, "sure I can."

"Now?" I say that because he doesn't move, and he does seem to be waiting.

Sammy snuggles into me, "Yeah, if that's ok, I have," I know him so well I know he is smiling, "a little problem."

"Uh," I start, but I'm Dean Winchester, and I know about guns, and I know about monsters, and I know about sex, and I taught Sam the first two, and this isn't all that different, is it? "Sam," I try and move my crotch away again, but he reaches backwards with a ridiculously long leg, and tangles me in.

"Dean?" Is he teasing me?

Yep, I can. "Take yourself out of your shorts." He sort of wiggles his ass me, and then apologizes. And I tell him it's ok, but I'm not sure it really is, because this is about him, and my body wants to be about me…and some of what he's doing isn't helping. "So take yourself in a hand, fist, you're right handed, use your right hand, and tighten it until it feels good."

I can feel Dean hard behind me, and it feels good, it makes this ok somehow in a way that if it was just me it wouldn't be. I wiggle my shorts down to reach myself, and wrap my fist around, and I'm silky and warm in a way I'm not when I'm soft. He tries to escape, Dean is being a prude, and a reach a leg back and haul him in…he is seriously not going anywhere right now. I know from how it felt when I got hard before that is isn't what it was, I used to get much harder, but this feels better, feels right.

Coaxing Sam to touch himself isn't like teaching him how to tie his shoes, it's hard, and it's sad, and its beautiful. He listens carefully, follows meticulously, when I ask how it is for him, Sam whimpers. I coax him: straight strokes, slow and smooth. Given how little he's been touched, that he's never been touched, he should shoot his load right about now, and then I realize that not having balls is going to slow him down. Did my body just respond to that? What a sick fuck I am.

"Do you ever use?"

That's right, he's probably super sensitive given he's never…you know. Sensitive and going to take forever to come, and don't know if that the best or worst ever combination. Yeah, lube. "Give a minute Sammy."

He slips away and digs in his coat. And I feel exposed without him holding me. "Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Have you done this with a guy before?" that didn't come out like I expected it, like I aught have intended it. "I mean, not like that," honest, I didn't mean it like that, even if the only person my body responds to is Dean, "I mean any sex things? Is this ok?" Then he is sliding back in with me, facing me this time, and I'll missed him pressed against my ass, but I like that I can see his face in the glow from the crappy hotel hallway lights. It's just comforting to know it's him, to feel safe, to not have to do this alone.

"Hand?" I thought facing him, keeping my body away from his would help focus me on him not me, but I feel a deep coil of desire pulling at me. I've wanted to fuck plenty before, but nothing, nothing and no-one like this, part of me is cold with want, and the rest is hot, and I need to be touched, I want to be touched by Sammy. He puts out a hand for lube like told him, and I squirt some lube in. "Warm it up." He looks confused…I realize where his other hand is. "Let go for a second and…" And he still looks puzzled so I kiss him, just on his forehead. "Take your time Sam." He bends his neck, his face down and away, and it doesn't feel like a rejection, it looks like shame.

I am so ashamed of myself, of what my body was, and of what I have done. I should have been able to be normal, to make this normal, to make my body work, and I don't even know how to hold my own cock without nearly freaking out. I'm asking for advice on jacking off, and I can't even get that right. I want this to be normal, I don't want to be afraid of this piece of me. Dean kisses the top of my head again. And of everything in the world that makes it better is Dean, always Dean.

I try to squirt more lube onto his hand, and he pulls back, so I just squirt it onto mine, and he grabs at my hands, and for a moment we just hold there. Then he grins, so suddenly, a flash of my Sam, my Sammy, and swats my hands, away, and I swat his, trying to get more lube onto them, "Can't be too wet, ever, better learn that now Sam." He swipes at my fingers with his, grabbing more lube from me, and giggles, he giggles at me. Where the hell are _my_ hands at? Shit, this is not what we are meant to be doing. I must looked plenty confused because Sammy laughs his shining open mouthed, most beautiful man in the world, dimples are so sexy laugh at me. And, oh-thank-god Sammy is happy, and I laugh right with him.

Oh god, the look one Dean's face when he realizes he nearly touched me. He looks so abjectly mortified, and I can't help laughing at him; Dean Winchester slayer of monsters, seducer of all mortal women afraid of embarrassing himself with me? But then he laughs with me - and I can let out a breath - and he swipes at my hand again, and I move quick, because no matter what he thinks I'm still faster than him. And he touches me, his hand palm open touches me for a second. And my hand rests over his, "Please?" Dean always makes me safe, he can make this safe for me.

I don't know, but we are suddenly playing and laughing and Sammy is smiling, and anyhow I end up touching Sam, which I never intended, but I touch him, and he guides my hand, 'Please?' This is so close to too much for me, the words for this aren't words I usually use… honored, privileged…loved that Sammy lets me be the first person to touch him.

I can feel the calluses on Dean's hand, the wear from work, from grave digging and guns, the raw strength that is him, the tenderness that is his, his grip is tight and I fit my hand around his. I close my eyes, as much as I want to look at him the feel is almost overwhelming, I reach behind him and pull him closer, feel him against me, skin to skin.

"Sweet Jesus Sammy."

Dean mimics my breathing, deep slow breaths held for just a second. "Sweet fuck, sweet fuck, oh Jesus fucking Mother Mary, sweet god, thank you, again, please 'gain, please Dean." And he does it again, "Oh, shit, sweet fuck, more please, please, Dean?" And I'm gasping, I can't breathe, but it's a good can't breathe, and I can feel every piece of me, pushed against him, and I know my mouth is open, begging, and sometimes kissing, and pleading for more of this, for more of what he is doing, for more of Dean. I feel tight, warm deep in myself, in my groin, in the place where nothing is, and I bury my face in his, and now suddenly I'm scared again, and he seems to know because he shifts us closer, fits us more deeply together, our fists trapped in between us, him pushed against my body, two of us finding our right place, finding our shared rhythm. All I can think, I can feel, I can want is Dean, Dean, Dean; the scent of me, and the scent of him. Dean's tongue finds its way into my mouth and soft and warm, and he is everywhere, he is gentle and he is strong, and quiet and good; and all of it is me and all of it is him.

He lets me touch him, and find his rhythm, that pressure that makes us feel perfect, this is Sammy, try to find a movement that makes him feel perfectly loved. I let my body follow his slow steady rhythm, so close to him. I run my hands over him, and I have to close my eyes, because the look of want and the look of bliss on his face is about enough to make me come. I have to keep myself steady, take our time, this is his first, it had better be the best first ever, but those words coming out of his mouth make me just want to open myself up completely to him, forget everything and give myself to him. Slowly, sweetly, afraid and seeking comfort, kissing me, allowing me to kiss him, hot, and hard and brave and strong in my arms, pulled as close as I can find a way for us to be, holding me to him, he begins to fall apart for me. Me and Sam, and I'm so close, and I can feel us tremble together, and 'want, and love, and need, and you' and all those things that should never be said being said being said by me and said by him. Please Sam, come for me, my Sammy, give me this perfect thing.

Chapter note:- This chapter is slightly different from my AO3 version, simply less explicit, I'm not actually sure if it's better or worse…just different. If you want to hop on over there and read it (and of course, you are over 18) the story has the same title. Thanks, M.


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